Heart
by summersquares
Summary: Gibbs has never had a cold, but what if he has a heart attack? It is hard to imagine what could happen to Gibbs that is worse than what has already happened to him so Taking Care of Gibbs stories seem rarer than the other way around. Thought I'd try. Tibbs of course, so if m/m pairings are not for you, please don't read. In two parts.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Set before _Hiatus_, where the sad story of Shannon and Kelly comes out, likely in the spring of 2006. And based on a 1956 date of birth for Gibbs and a 1971 date of birth for DiNozzo, Gibbs is 50 and Tony 35. The fact that these dates may be inaccurate is a result of my own willfulness and and despite the outstanding efforts of chaimonkey, jtrattray, caprigirl60, GCatsPJs and eyesonly321 to make it all right.

I know the story, the writing, isn't perfect, and maybe there should be clearer section breaks and stuff like that. And maybe I shouldn't start a story by apologizing. And maybe a lot of things and my insecurity (topped only, apparently, by my willfulness _see above_) is probably a direct result of real world pressure. Then again, I might not be writing if not for the need to escape, so…

Ack. Here we go. I had thought this would be a one shot, but instead it is in two halves. More to come on this as well as other stories.

Love,  
>Squares<p>

* * *

><p>When it happened, Gibbs was alone. Tony would have liked to be there, to be the one to notice the gray tone to his boss' skin, the wince and roll of his left shoulder, the shortness of breath.<p>

Instead, he practically tripped on him in the parking garage as he went for lunch. Gibbs was, perhaps, trying to get home. Maybe felt lousy, decided to call it a day. But Gibbs was never sick, never had a cold even.

And Tony almost fell over him.

"Boss! Gibbs, _oh shit oh shit oh shit_," Tony pulled his phone from his pocket and even as he kneeled, with only the slightest of pauses to decide, pressed #4 for Ducky.

"Donald Mallard speaking."

"Ducky. It's Gibbs, we're in the parking garage. Call 911."

"I'll be right there, Tony."

Tony rolled the older man to his back and leaned over. He felt his bones melt with relief when he felt the shallow breath against his cheek. For just an instant, he let his head drop down lightly to rest against Gibbs' chest. He surged up and onto his feet as he heard the elevator open.

Just forty-five minutes later, Tony was sitting on hard plastic chair with Ziva, McGee, and Abby, watching Ducky filling out forms at the nurse's station. When the ME finished and crossed the room to them, trench coat over his arm, Tony rose.

"What did they say?"

Ducky's face was serious. "He had a small heart attack from a single blockage, but further tests revealed a serious aortic aneurysm." Tony's face must have shown shock because Ducky's eyes never left his face, even as he reassured. "He is in good health, even if his diet leaves a lot to be desired, and they are going to run tests to see if there is any damage to his heart muscles and or if there are any more blockages." Now Ducky looked at all four of Gibbs' team.

"Gibbs is...what...in his late 40s? Early 50s? So young for such a disease, correct?" Zivva wanted to know.

Ducky's answer was noncommittal. "The weakness in the walls of his aorta is probably genetic, especially given how young he is, though the plaque may well be a result of his poor eating habits. It is important that they operate soon because if the aneurysm either ruptured or dissected, it would likely be fatal."

"You signed the forms right? Wait. Why did _you_ sign the forms? Did he not wake up, Ducky?" McGee wanted to know.

"We won't know anything for a while, so—"

Tony's voice insisted. "Ducky…"

Ducky sighed. "They will probably do stent surgery which is usually a relatively short procedure of 1-2 hours. Because of the aneurysm, his stay in the hospital will likely be extended. 3 or 4 days anyway. Really, we won't know anything for hours…"

"I'm staying." Tony sat down, as if daring Ducky to kick him out of the hospital. But Ducky just smiled a little, nodded and sat down next to him. Ziva, McGee, and Abby joined them. Abby looped her arm through Tony's and leaned against him.

The smell of coffee and a gentle hand on his shoulder woke Tony the next morning. His neck hurt from the way his head was tilted backwards to rest against the wall. He suppressed a groan as he straightened his neck and opened sticky eyes to see McGee standing over him. Ziva cursed softly in Hebrew and rose from where she was laying across three plastic seats, and Abby's still sleeping form was heavy against Tony's thigh.

"How's Gibbs? Where's Ducky?"

"I don't know, Tony. I woke up a few minutes ago but he wasn't here. I went for coffee." He sounded almost apologetic.

"That's good, McGee. Give one to Zombie Agent David over there." He jerked his head toward their partner.

Tony patted Abby's head gently. They were friends, sure, but they hadn't really snuggled. He felt awkward but also...something warm, something like an urge to comfort as she opened her eyes and blinked slowly. He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder and she turned her head to look up at him and smile a little.

What followed was a long day of tests and doctors and ultimately, a decision to conduct a procedure to put stents in two of Gibbs' arteries. There didn't seem to be much, if any, permanent damage done from the episode, but Gibbs was weak and tired and quieter even than usual. Tony had sent McGee and Ziva back to the Yard to keep an eye on the office. There wasn't a whole lot to do but wait with Gibbs, and Tony could tell the older man was irritated by the number of people flitting in and out of his room. Ducky took the lead with the doctors but tended to ramble on when he sat at Gibbs' bedside.

Tony could tell Gibbs would have preferred the other man stop talking, but he didn't say anything. Gibbs wasn't himself. He wasn't snapping at the nurses, or redirecting Ducky; he just didn't respond, mostly. The nurses went about their cheerful, bustling way, which reassured Tony that they didn't see anything to worry about but Tony did catch Ducky staring at the other man when he didn't think anyone was looking; his expression was not reassuring. But when Tony asked, Ducky said everything was in order. Finally, mid-afternoon, Gibbs closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. Tony had his doubts but at least he was resting. When he saw Ducky look around for a newspaper, Tony sent him home to clean up and rest, saying he'd stay the night with Gibbs.

Tony was surprised at himself, honestly. He hated hospitals, and his every personal interaction just intensified the dislike. But Gibbs seemed to...tolerate...him better than others, today. And so, he stayed. When they all filed into see the older man this morning, Tony half expected GIbbs to look small and frail, but he didn't. He looked pale, a little tired, but his voice was strong even if he didn't have much to say. Ziva leaned over and kissed the older man on the check and so did Abby. He smiled a little at both of them and grumbled something about Ziva going soft on him. McGee asked him how he felt and looked hopeful that there would be more forthcoming than Gibbs' grumbled "fine."

Finally, Tony took pity on them all and sent them on errands, leaving him alone with Gibbs.

Tony sat in the chair in the corner. It was a recliner, of sorts, and obviously would allow a guest to sleep. Tony fiddled with it and ended up flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

"There is a spot on the ceiling that looks just like a bat, boss." He turned his head and met Gibbs' eyes from the few feet separating them.

"You enjoying yourself, DiNozzo?"

Tony figured the truth was best. "I am enjoying the fact that it isn't me in that bed, boss. Nice of you to take a turn." His smile turned into a laugh at Gibbs' sour face.

He did his best to entertain, turning on the tv and flipping through channels, telling Gibbs all the best NCIS gossip, but in the end, he turned the set off. Gibbs wasn't watching anyway.

"Hey, boss?"

"Yeah?"

Tony pushed down and the chair snapped into place with a thunk. He rose to stand next to Gibbs' bed. His fingers touched the soft blanket. His eyes watched his fingers, and then slipped up to meet Gibbs' bright blue ones.

"You want me to leave you alone?"

"Just a lot of waiting. No sense in you being here too."

This was said with just one brief glance at Tony's face. Tony reached out, the urge to touch the other man, reassure himself, finally getting the better of him. He wrapped his hand around Gibbs' wrist.

"Yeah, but do you want to be alone?"

"I'm probably gonna sleep mostly anyway."

Tony didn't remove his hand. Didn't repeat his question aloud until it was there, in the room between them.

"Do you mind if I stay?"

Gibbs shrugged and closed his eyes. Tony didn't know what it meant.

"Up to you."

Tony thought that Gibbs would kick him out if he really wanted him to go. So he stayed, hand on Gibbs' arm until the other man truly was sleeping. It was so rare to get to observe Gibbs like this that when the nurse came in, Tony was surprised that twenty minutes had passed.

Gibbs had the procedure on the morning of the second day in the hospital and all told, was in the hospital five days. Tony was there for most of it, but had McGee, Ziva, and Abby relieve him for part of each day. Abby was inclined to be emotional and Gibbs' eyes begged him not to leave, so he asked Abby to read to Gibbs from the book Tony had grabbed from his nightstand, a dog-earred copy of The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey. Tony had never heard of it and wondered if it was a used copy or if Gibbs had read it more than once. Gibbs' shoulders relaxed and Abby was obviously game to read to the older man.

When McGee came, Tony again ignored Gibbs' silent demand and left them with a deck of cards and a request that they play at least 20 hands of gin rummy. He ran home to shower and shave and pick up supplies since no one brought him meals.

Ziva was as reluctant to be alone with Gibbs as Gibbs was to be with her. She pulled Tony aside in the corridor and asked him what she should talk about with Gibbs. Tony had thought about this and told her to talk about whatever she could say about Mossad methods of training and investigation. He left them conversing fairly comfortably about Ziva's training as a young agent. This allowed Tony to go pick up several wood working magazines.

That night he was pleased to see Gibbs' eyes light up as Tony pulled out the magazines.

" 'Four jigs for a fixed-based router' or 'Build perfect drawers'...how are you going to decide, boss?" Gibbs had a light in his eye for the first time all day and while it dimmed a little when Tony came over to help him sit up, and when Tony fished his reading glasses out of the overnight bag Ducky had packed him, it was still there.

"Go eat something, Tony. I'll be alright." The other man checked the table of contents and flipped to the page he wanted. Tony craned his head.

"Whatcha reading? It's the jigs right? You wanted to read about the jigs. I'm right aren't I?"

Gibbs pulled the magazine close. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Tony pouted and headed for the door. "I'll be back."

"I know." Tony looked back at this quiet assertion. Gibbs nodded once. Maybe in thanks.

It was Tony and Ducky who walked with Gibbs as he was wheeled out to the curb. Tony drove them all home to Gibbs' house where Ducky got him settled, medicines sorted on the kitchen counter. Gibbs insisted that he'd be alright. That he didn't need anyone to stay. When Tony pushed, Gibbs pushed back harder and while Gibbs' brusque dismissal seemed like a return of the bastard, there was something about it that set Tony's hair on end. He just wasn't sure...couldn't he just stay on Gibbs' couch in case the other man needed something?

In the end, he and Ducky were sent packing and looked at each other as they stood on Gibbs' front stoop, the sound of the door closing behind them final. Tony wouldn't have been surprised to hear Gibbs lock it, for once. And he understood, he did. But Gibbs' had a heart attack, dammit. What if he needed something? Tony checked his phone. Four bars and 89% battery.

"Well, Duck. He'll call if he needs us." He walked Ducky to his car and closed the door behind the other man. Ducky rolled down the window and looked up at Tony.

"Are you going to check yourself into the hotel around the corner or are you planning on sleeping in your car?"

Tony grimaced. "Thought I'd try the car."

"Well, good luck, my boy. Call me if you need me. He is as stubborn as they come." Shaking his head, he backed out and drove off.

Tony sat in the driveway—unless Gibbs left the house, he shouldn't see Tony there—and listened to a ball game, ate a granola bar but resigned himself to a cold, hungry night. Now that he decided to stay, he didn't want to leave in case something happened.

His phone vibrated. Gibbs.

"Hi, Boss."

"What the hell are you doing in my driveway, DiNozzo."

"Uh...listening to a ballgame."

"You are just pissing me off, you know that right? Is that what you want, to piss me off?"

"No, but—"

"Do I look like a child, DiNozzo? Someone who can't take care of himself?"

"No, Gibbs, but—"

"Go home, Tony. I don't want you here."

At that, Tony stopped protesting. Silence spun out between the two phones. But Tony didn't leave.

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you, Gibbs."

"Why aren't I hearing your engine starting up, Tony?"

"Because I'm not leaving."

"Tony…"

"Say what you need to, Gibbs, but I'm not leaving."

A much longer pause followed by uncharacteristic capitulation. "You can take the spare room, Tony, but I don't need a fucking nursemaid and I have had enough conversation in the last four days to last me a lifetime. Keep your fucking mouth shut and you can stay the night."

Tony was truly shocked now. Gibbs was rarely profane. Bastard that he was, he either ignored you or outmaneuvered you or took you down a peg or two. But you always knew it was about the job, about doing what he thought best. There was something dignified and old world about Gibbs, his brand of ethics and justice. Even when he was being a bastard. What he just said revealed just how off center Gibbs was because of all of this.

Tony swallowed hard, wondering if he had pushed too hard. "Okay, boss."

Tony went in and dropped his bag in the hall. "Where do you want me?"

Gibbs just shot him a dark look and walked slowly to the basement.

Tony stood there and listened to the slow shuffle of feet on the pine risers. He could see part of the kitchen from where he stood, saw the medicine—the bloodthinners and nitro, the aspirin and the pain medications. He saw a...bowl of fruit? One of the team must've come by and stocked up.

He could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock on the mantle, checked his watch. 4:13.

He wandered into the kitchen, wondered if he should make dinner of some sort. Gibbs hadn't eaten much in the hospital, but he had to eat to get better, right? The doctor had recommended a healthy, but easy to digest, diet for the first couple of days home.

There was a sticky note on a large bell shaped...gourd? The note said "Low in fat, butternut squash delivers an ample dose of dietary fiber, making it an exceptionally heart-friendly choice. It provides significant amounts of potassium, important for bone health, and vitamin B6, essential for the proper functioning of both the nervous and immune systems."

That was...sort of...helpful. Recognizing Abby's handwriting, Tony called her. "What do you do with butternut squash?"

"Hello to you too, Tony. You staying with the bossman?"

"Just until he kicks me out. I might last an hour."

"That bad, huh?"

Tony felt strangely protective of Gibbs all of a sudden. "Nah. He's just tired of people being around so much." The call waiting buzz sounded on the phone. "Just a sec, Abby, someone is calling in."

"Hello?"

"What did I tell you about talking, DiNozzo?" Shit. Gibbs. From the basement.

"Uh, sorry boss. It's Abby, I—"

The line went dead. Tony switched back to Abby. "Abby," he whispered desperately, "I have to go. What do I do with the squash?"

Abby whispered back, playing along. "Make soup. Good luck, Tony." And then she too, hung up.

Sighing, Tony looked up soup recipes online. Gibbs didn't have any stock, but Tony used water, boiled the squash and an apple, like they said, added salt and pepper and a little bit of cayenne and pureed it all in a blender. One recipe called for cream but Tony thought that might defeat the purpose. It was bright orange and smelled good. Tony's hands were bright orange and smelled weird.

He made toast and spread a little bit of the new tub of light butter he found in the fridge on it and made his way down the stairs. Gibbs was at the work bench, doing something with a pile of screws. Sorting maybe? Tony was glad. He couldn't say so, but the other man should not be exerting himself, even to sand or plane.

"Gibbs?"

The other man turned his head to meet Tony's eyes.

"There's dinner if you are hungry."

Finally Gibbs nodded. "Be up in a minute."

Something..._something_...made Tony stay, push. "Gibbs?"

"Yes, Tony?" Exasperation.

Tony didn't know how to say what he wanted to say.

"Just say it. Get it over with."

"I don't want you to walk up the stairs alone." The words came out in a rush. Tony hadn't said anything when the other man went downstairs, despite the doctor asking him to not do anything too strenuous. But now...

Gibbs' eyes flicked to the stairs and Tony noticed that one of his hands was gripping the bench, hard. Hard enough to see white around the knuckles.

Gibbs took a breath, deep as he could given his physical condition. "What do you suggest?"

"I think you should lean on me. That way if you get short of breath or dizzy, I'll be there." Tried to be matter of fact. Gibbs' lips were pressed together, also white, and Tony could feel the anger coming off of him in waves.

But the older man didn't send him away, and there was something uncertain about Gibbs too. As if he didn't quite know what he wanted, as if he was too tired to know. Without saying anything, Gibbs moved to the stairs, waited for Tony to come down the last couple of steps to stand at his side.

"You want to hold on to me, or do you want me to hold on to you?"

Again, Gibbs glared, didn't answer, but put out a hand to hold Tony's forearm. Halfway up, Gibbs was sweating and Tony was worried. He stopped them, and took his arm away from Gibbs, the alarmed look the other man gave him making him say, "Here, Gibbs, let's try this…" as he put his arm around the other man's waist, and now the solid bulk of him seemed less somehow and even as Gibbs put more and more weight on him the higher they went, the more that Tony felt that Gibbs was lighter than he had been..

Finally, they stood at the top of the stairs. Tony wanted to take a few more steps, worried, even now, that they were too close to the edge and if he lost his grip, Gibbs could topple backwards. But Gibbs had put out a hand to hold Tony still and Tony wanted Gibbs to have what he needed if at all possible. So he waited, while Gibbs caught his breath.

"Okay, Tony. I'm okay."

Tony woke in the night to silence. He was sleeping in Gibbs' room, actually, or what he assumed was Gibbs' room. It didn't look used, much, and he had to clear off the bed, but it was at the head of the stairs and Tony wanted to be able to hear Gibbs if he needed something. He had been ready to try to bully the man into sleeping in a bed, but the trip up the basement stairs disabused him of the idea that another climb would be a good thing. Gibbs was curiously passive all through dinner, eating soup and toast, and only occasionally showing signs of spirit or temper. He glared at the milk Tony had poured and got to his feet and poured himself some water from the tap. Tony grinned and downed the other man's milk for him, leaving the milk mustache, hoping Gibbs would growl at him to _wipe that ridiculous thing off your face_. But he didn't.

Gibbs' attitude and behavior continued to waffle. He took his meds easily enough but growled at Tony when the other man brought down sheets he found in the linen closet.

"Been sleeping on the couch for years now, Tony. I've got this." The other man looked up from where he was sitting on the end of the sofa. "Go to bed." No see you in the morning or thanks for dinner. That actually made Tony feel a little better.

"Call me if you need anything."

Gibbs waved his hand. Go on.

But now, Tony blinked at the unfamiliar dark, the house quiet around him. _Did something wake him up or was it nothing?_ He sighed, decided to check.

He had slept in his clothes, on top of the covers with a blanket thrown over him, so he was padding downstairs just seconds later. Gibbs was still on the couch, so that was good, but as Tony crept closer he could see the other man's eyes were open. Even closer, and he could hear the rapid breaths. Tony was kneeling next to the couch in an instant.

"Gibbs? You okay?" Tony touched the other man's chest and felt the rise and fall, could see the sheen of sweat on the other man's face in the glow from the street lamp outside.

Gibbs turned his head and his eyes, dark and glittering, met his. He ground words out through teeth clenched hard enough to hurt.

"I think it...I...I...is it happening again?" Gibbs arms shifted at his sides, trying to push himself up. Tony helped him sit up, sat behind and next to him, hand on his back, seeking information.

"Does it hurt in your chest?" A nod.

"Your arm?" A shade of the head. No.

"Is the pain sharp?" A pause but then no.

Tony remembered what Ducky had said, what the doctor had said. Gibbs was just 50, in good shape, unused to being ill. Dealing with a recovery and lifestyle changes might be harder than recovering from the attack. He might be having a panic attack. Gibbs panicking seemed almost as unlikely as Gibbs being sick, to Tony.

"I'm going to call Ducky." That the other man didn't object made Tony's blood run cold.

Ducky came in twenty minutes and Tony met him at the door, whispering an update. Even as he labored to breathe, Gibbs glared daggers at Tony who said, automatically. "Won't happen again, Boss." Ducky checked him out and decided a trip to the hospital was not necessary. Just that seemed to reassure Gibbs and things started to get better. When they were enough better, Ducky left. Gibbs was coaxed into admitting that it was easier to breathe sitting up so Tony propped pillows up behind him, and despite more glares, Gibbs didn't send Tony away again. Tony dozed in a recliner once Gibbs had dropped off himself.

The next day, Sunday, passed quietly enough with a single—acceptable but ill-advised, in Ducky's opinion—trip down to the basement and back up again, and people dropping by with food. Tony made himself scarce, running home to get clothes and running errands while people were around, making sure that Gibbs knew that he wasn't to climb the basement stairs without him—Tony didn't trust anyone else—and that he'd be back by two.

Tony had figured out in the hospital that Gibbs got tired in the afternoon. Probably always had; his grouchiness and need for coffee had usually peaked in early afternoon. So he was back at Gibbs' by two and kicked Abby out. The scientist was perched on the cellar stairs, a tangle of black yarn and knitting needles on her lap, chatting happily about the nuns. Gibbs looked up when Tony came downstairs, didn't object when the younger man sent Abby home.

When Tony returned from walking her out, Gibbs had put away his tools and was leaning against the workbench. Waiting, sort of. Without saying a word, Tony waited too, at the bottom of the stairs. Tony could sense the weary drag in Gibbs steps and again Gibbs started out gripping Tony's arm and ended up with Tony's strong arm wrapped around his waist to steady him the last few steps.

At the top, they paused, and Gibbs mumbled something about Tony not having to "haul him up the stairs every time."

"You aren't a damsel in distress, Gibbs. You just had a heart attack. Anyone would need a little help up the stairs." Again, a glare, but no more words.

This time Gibbs took the recliner and Tony the couch, both men dozing off to the sound of the baseball game on TV. Tony waited until Gibbs fell asleep though, covering him with a blanket because the memory of the cold hand on his forearm was nagging at him.

They fell into a routine, of sorts, over the next week. Tony went back to work and left before Gibbs woke up. Abby or Ducky stopped by and stayed in the morning a while, to make sure Gibbs took medicine, ate, and got downstairs alright. Tony took a late lunch and went back to Gibbs to help him back up the basement stairs and settle him in the chair in the living room. Tony worried a little that Gibbs would need to come back upstairs alone, to go to the bathroom or answer the door, and worked himself up to an extremely uncomfortable conversation with the other man about not doing that.

"Tony, I'll piss in a jar if I have to and when have I ever cared about answering the door?"

And that was that. McGee and Ziva, other colleagues including Fornell, stopped by in the evenings, often for dinner which was all to the good since the heart healthy food Gibbs was eating was better eaten in company, to distract him. Gibbs ate it, mostly, but drew the line for some reason, at salad. Gibbs was still quiet and basically accepting of Tony's rough care and the attention of others, and that more than anything told Tony how lousy Gibbs must really be feeling.

Nighttimes were another matter. Gibbs had a panic attack almost every night. After the first one, Tony and Gibbs weathered them together, not calling Ducky. Tony would wake and almost tumble down the stairs. He'd snick on the small table lamp to provide a little light and help Gibbs struggle up to sitting. After trying a couple different positions, Tony stopped trying to avoid the obvious best choice and just scooted Gibbs forward a little and sat behind the other man.

"Tony—"

"Gibbs, shut up. This way I can tell how you are breathing and you don't have to spend all your energy holding yourself up. Hell, this way I don't have to spend all my energy holding you up. Deal with it."

Tony sat with the arm of the couch at his back and had Gibbs lean back against his chest. It didn't take long for Tony to give in and wrap his arms around Gibbs. That way, he could press his palms against Gibbs' heart and his belly; feeling with his hands the way the other man was breathing was the best way to know, to be sure…

Gibbs would lay one hand on Tony's forearm and grip until the panic subsided. Eventually Tony crawled out from behind him, resettled Gibbs and slept in the chair the rest of the night. But in the moments just after, when the worst of the panic was over, when they were both aware and not distracted by Gibbs distress, when the intimacy between them was simple and undeniable, Tony would ask Gibbs what happened to make him panic. Was it dreams? The thought of dying? What?

And Gibbs, still trembling slightly from the episode, his whole weight resting comfortably against Tony, would try to speak, he really did. But Gibbs never got farther than, "I...I…" before shaking his head and accepting the small soothing movements of Tony's hand on his chest.

They made it a week like that. Gibbs was getting stronger, took his medicine, his color was better. But he wasn't gaining weight back and he was taking his medicine without complaint. He accepted people in his house and didn't talk about going back to work. It wasn't right.

Tony cornered Ducky one day in Autopsy. Ducky listened to his concerns and nodded. "I am glad you are looking out for him, Anthony. He needs you more than he can say, literally. I think he'll be fine; he's resilient, Jethro is. But he's a strong man, used to being in charge and active. I think your idea to get him to talk is a good one, but I don't really have any suggestions for how to do so. I have always found that people are much more likely to confide in one, if one has confided in them first. But Jethro and I could not be more different. I'm not sure how valid my advice is on this subject."

The next morning, Gibbs sweaty body heavy against his on the couch, Tony gave it his best shot. He had thought about what he might confide to Gibbs...he and Abby making out in the early days of Tony's time at N.C.I.S.; the fact that he wet the bed until he was 11; his night in jail when he was 22. But those weren't really confidences. He didn't even feel bad about them. Bad was family shit. But some of that was real bad. It didn't seem entirely relevant anymore even. He knew what he had to tell. There was more, but he would have to start with that.

"Gibbs?"

Gibbs' voice was tired, a little slurred. "I don't...can't...Tony just let it go, okay?"

"I'm bi."

"..."

"Gibbs?"

"What?"

"I'm bi, Gibbs. I have sex with everyone. Well, not _everyone_ obviously but people I want to sleep with. It's just that some of them are women and some of them are men."

Gibbs' body convulsed, shook a little.

"Gibbs? Are you okay? Are you—" Tony craned his neck to try to get a good look at Gibbs' face and finally figured out that Gibbs was laughing.

"Are you laughing at me?" Tony's relief was such that he started to smile too but wondered if he should be offended.

"No. I just…I'm having a panic attack and you...you—what made you tell me that?"

"Ducky said if I told you something, maybe you would tell me what was happening to you."

"So you told me your second best secret?"

"What do you mean second best? That was a great secret!"

"Yeah, Tony, great." The older man patted Tony's hand and Tony wanted to pull it away in a huff. "But I know you. And you would no more lead with your deepest secret than I would."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"I told you mine. Now how about you tell me what's going on with you in the middle of the night?"

"Can't."

"Can't or won't?"

Gibbs thought about that. "Mostly can't. A little bit of won't. If I can get it so it is more won't than can't, I'll tell you, okay? You are doing good, Tony. I owe you that much." Now Gibbs elbowed Tony gently in the ribs. "Now stop canoodling and let me get back to sleep."

Another week passed and while Gibbs did seem in slightly better spirits and maybe was eating a little more at mealtimes—except salads—he didn't have more to share in the middle the night. Tony did. The intimacy of nighttime and holding Gibbs, Gibbs relying on him and the unfamiliar feeling of being just the right person for this kind of job, not to mention the fact that Tony still held out hope that Gibbs would talk to him someday, combined to draw more details out of Tony. He told Gibbs a little bit about his first boyfriend and some of the ways that he maintained a mixed sex life even now, in D.C.

"How come I've never seen you with a guy? Has it really been that big a secret?"

"I don't know. I mean, I'm a cop, not looking to make things harder for myself, but also guy sex is kind of all about the sex mostly. Not a lot of foreplay or dating. I've never met a man I wanted to see again...well, I mean sometimes I want to see them again, just not—"

"Yeah, I got it, Hot stuff." And the growing awkwardness was dispelled. But so was the mood and Tony felt Gibbs pulling away. Time to get up. Tony squashed the disappointment he was starting to feel that this part of the night was over. The chair seemed very cold and lonely compared to sitting on the couch with Gibbs.

LJG&TD

"Tony?"

For the first time, it was Gibbs' voice that woke Tony. He flew down the stairs and stood in the door, relief flooding him when he saw Gibbs sitting up on the couch, the amber glow from the small table lamp already warming the room.

"What is it?" Sleep made his voice thick. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I woke up this time before it got bad."

"Oh." Tony ran a hand through his hair, and felt the chilly air on his bare legs. He had taken to sleeping in a t-shirt and boxers. "Good." He stumbled to the other end of the couch and sat down.

"I haven't been afraid of death in 15 years."

Tony just listened. What could be so bad that this man, the strongest man he knew, hid from it?

The silence stretched out. Tony knew Gibbs had more to say but didn't know if he would.

"I wanted to die. Wanted to die every day since, more or less. It is hard to admit because it feels wrong but" the older man swallowed, blinked, but his eyes were back on Tony's, "I haven't felt it as much in recent years. I haven't truly been afraid of dying in all that time though." Gibbs eyes held Tony's, asking something now and Tony felt a little tug on his arm. Carefully, sure he must be wrong, Tony rose and came around to Gibbs' side of the couch. Sure enough, Gibbs leaned forward enough for Tony to slide in behind him and the older man allowed a small sigh to escape as he leaned back against Tony, pulled Tony's arms around him where they fit comfortably now, took Tony's hand and pressed it flat against his heart. And then he said the rest of it.

"Hell of a thing, finding out you don't want to die after all."

LJG&TD

Gibbs fell asleep resting against him, and Tony dozed, managing to slide out from under the other man without waking him. Another unnerving un-Gibbslike thing.

Tony had to clench his hand into a fist to keep from smoothing the lines on Gibbs' face.

On the way to work he agonized over the night. He hadn't said anything and Gibbs had told him he wanted to die. What kind of...friend...was he? But Gibbs had seemed relaxed after that, and god knows, the man was comfortable with silence. The older man had fallen asleep soon after that so maybe it was alright. He repressed the urge to call and check. It had only been 45 minutes; Gibbs might still be asleep. He'd wait until lunch.

And sure enough, Gibbs seemed in good spirits after lunch, and had taken a walk with Ducky that morning. When Tony got back to work, he found that Gibbs had written him an email. The email contained a date: February 29, 1991. Tony was a cop and knew the date would lead him to a crime, or a disaster of some sort. But he googled around the edges of it for a while anyway...Tonya Harding won a skating championship, some Nicaraguan leader was killed.

Tony stopped avoiding it and went to the online news databases available to all NCIS agents and researchers. And there it was. _Witness and Child Killed when Driver Shot_. The last day of Desert Storm. Shannon Gibbs. Kelly Gibbs.

Wife. Child.

Tony hadn't cared deeply for anyone since his mother died. Seemed stupid now but marrying Wendy felt more like trying to be something, a certain kind of man or cop, than actually wanting it. But he wondered now if this is what Gibbs' felt, at least a small version of it, when he had the heart attack. Tony's chest hurt, ached, every time he thought about Gibbs and child. He didn't think much about kids himself, but he thought a lot about Gibbs, and knew what children meant to the man. It hurt. To think of Gibbs as a father. A father of a little girl. A little girl who died.

He went home that night—to Gibbs' house, anyway— and Gibbs had made dinner. Tony peered into the bubbling crock pot.

"You don't have to look so suspicious. It's not Triple Cheeseburger with a Side of Bacon Stew."

He turned to see Gibbs in the doorway.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You have a good day?"

"I just saw you a couple of hours ago, DiNozzo."

"Well, lots could have happened. The mail could have come. Girl scouts could have sold you cookies."

Gibbs raised his eyebrow.

"Okay, forget I said that. You wouldn't have answered the door."

Now Gibbs smiled a little. "I probably would have."

"Really? Why?"

"Because you love Thin Mints."

"Aw, boss. Didn't know you cared." Changing the conversation, Tony asked. "What is this anyway? Smells great."

"Chicken Stew. In a crockpot. Abby emailed me the recipe. Found the crockpot on my front steps."

Gibbs hadn't gone near a computer or talked about going back to work since he had come home.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I was checking email. I was thinking that I might go back to work, light duty, next week. It's Wednesday now. That gives me four more days. I'll need to requalify and pass the fitness tests before I can go in the field, but at least I can go in for deskwork."

"Oh. Of course. Sounds good."

Gibbs seemed abstracted, his gaze fixed off to the side somewhere before he focused on Tony again.

"So...DiNozzo...Tony, I haven't said thanks—"

"Gibbs, let's eat. I'm starving. This looks great."

Gibbs looked a little surprised that Tony had cut him off, but he didn't press the issue. They ate at the kitchen table but took their drinks back to the living room, beer for Tony and decaf coffee for Gibbs.

For the first time, Tony felt a little uncomfortable with Gibbs and he filled the silence with anything and everything he could think of, deliberately speaking slowly to make it seem like he wasn't uncomfortable but that just made him more uncomfortable.

Finally, Gibbs got up and walked away, right in the middle of what Tony was saying. _What was he saying?_

"Hey, where are you going?"

Gibbs looked back over his shoulder. "Gonna go pay some bills, catch up on some paperwork. Why don't you…" Gibbs didn't seem mad, just a little exasperated, "watch a movie or something?"

So Tony did, and went to bed, trying not to think about Gibbs' family and Gibbs going back to work and what Gibbs was going to say to him and how probably once Gibbs went back to work, Gibbs wouldn't need him here anymore. Probably didn't need him now.

Tony said a stilted good night before going upstairs early and Gibbs looked up long enough to nod.

The good day wasn't followed by a good night though and Gibbs' moaning and thrashing around woke Tony quickly enough that by the time the other man was gasping and grabbing at his shirt, Tony was beside him on the couch. No time to turn on the light but even in the dim glow from the street lamps outside, Gibbs was wild-eyed and kept tugging on the neck of his shirt. Finally, he just pulled it off, but it didn't seem to help much and Tony had to take hold of Gibbs' fingers where they were pushing and plucking at his chest.

"Unnnnngh." The sound Gibbs made through clenched teeth was painful to hear and Tony's hand slid down the older man's spine as he curled forward and over.

Tony had never felt so helpless. He wondered if he should call the doctor, go to the hospital, but these were all the same things that Gibbs did after a bad dream. He pulled lightly and Gibbs tipped toward him. Tony shifted back and opened his arms, pulling Gibbs between them. And Gibbs, eyes and mouth closed tight against—what? Pain? Fear? Embarrassment? —went easily. He just slumped against Tony, pushed against his neck and shoulder with his face as if trying to escape through the younger man. Tony wasn't sure what to do, but somewhere he registered guiltily how smooth the skin of Gibbs' back felt, and how warm and solid the other man felt in his arms. It was absurd and so unlikely and incredible, that Gibbs would let Tony hold him. _Jesus_. Tony swallowed against a painful anticipation of loss. Even as he held Gibbs, he thought that he wouldn't be able to keep him.

But for now he could, and his thumb stroked little soothing stripes where it rested against Gibbs back. And Tony was mumbling "Shh. It's okay." Over and over and Gibbs was calming.

As Gibbs' body relaxed, Tony prepared for the other man to shift, sit up, but instead, Gibbs flipped around and pressed back into Tony, seeking familiar comfort. Tony sighed himself now, and brought his hands up to rest on Gibbs' heart, and at his side.

"Sorry." Gibbs rasped out.

"Gibbs, don't—"

"Sign of weakness."

"Gibbs."

"It is, Tony. I have never been weak. Even when the worst happened, I survived . But this...this lays me down low."

Tony wasn't sure how to say just how fucking grateful he was to be here, to be let in this way, to be needed. He felt guilty that Gibbs' suffering made it possible for him to feel this way. His arms tightened and Gibbs pushed back harder.

"Just...just sleep, can you, Gibbs?"

"Probably should call me Jethro, Tony."

"Just sleep would you, Jethro?"

Tony thought he could sense the smile.

"I'll try."

It was only a few minutes later that Gibbs did fall asleep. And in the morning, Tony slipped out from under him again, to go to work.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: First, a shout of thanks to Amy H. for a conversation we had once that led to the way I characterized something in the first chapter. Maybe she'll remember, but her input is always wonderful. And for my friend C, who asserts that I am not ridiculous.

Second, like many of us, I find it...what?...tempting, soothing, easier, anyway...to access deep feeling if surrounded by humor, even gentle humor. It constantly surprises me how some of my favorite, funniest authors, can just reach down and twist my guts without any warning. Terry Pratchett is one. I was re-reading something the other day, while working on this story, and laughing probably, but was struck by these words of his:

"Strength enough to build a home,  
>Time enough to hold a child,<br>Love enough to break a heart"

Tell me that this doesn't remind you of Gibbs. Tell me it doesn't break your heart a little.

Thanks for reading.

Squares 9/17/14

* * *

><p>Gibbs' heart changed a number of things.<p>

One.

Tony's heart. Gibbs' heart changed Tony's heart. Revealed it, at least. He never could ignore again what he had suspected but had never known for sure. Tony knew now what...who...he wanted. There was a little bit of peace in that, but mostly it sucked. His boss, and a man who never showed any sign of being anything less than straight, even though he now knew just how bent Tony was.

Two.

When, just a few months after his heart attack, Gibbs was blown up, the doctors said that the cardio therapy, improved diet, and the fact that his aneurysm had been dealt with, all combined to mitigate some of the effects of the explosion. When he woke up, thinking that he was a young marine, that his wife and child had died recently, not remembering any of them, Tony found some small comfort in Gibbs' physical health.

The nurses still remembered Tony though and he was allowed back after hours to recline in a nearby chair and observe a shape that was less like a bat and more like a dinosaur on the ceiling. He listened to Gibbs breathing, the sound of the monitors, and eventually dozed off. He woke up to the familiar sounds of Gibbs panicking, right down to plucking at the neck of his shirt. A nurse hurried in to assess and soothe, but Gibbs fought, still mostly asleep.

"Hey, now, it's alright. You are alright, safe, in a hospital. Can you hear me, Mr. Gibbs?" She held Gibbs' hand, stroked his cheek with her thumb.

"Excuse me, Miss. I...I have seen him like this before. He's having a panic attack."

Even as Gibbs thrashed, a moan escaped him and punched a tiny hole in Tony's gut.

She was an experienced nurse, if young, and knew her patients. "There is no indication of medication for anxiety on his chart." She renewed her clasp on his hand and kept speaking to Gibbs, attempting to calm him. Her other hand came out to rest at the place where his IV pierced his skin, holding it still. Jethro continued to twist and gasp for air.

"He hasn't had these attacks in months. _Please_, just let me...I can help." She glanced over her shoulder at him and Tony tried to look benign, held his empty hands out.

"Okay, let's see what you can do." She kept her hands on Gibbs but backed up a little, pulled the IV stand toward her to safeguard, and to give him room.

"Can you help me sit him up? He breathes better that way." She did so, and the gasping turned to deep breaths almost immediately. Gibbs was still sweating and his eyes, while half open, were not lucid. The two of them sat him up, Tony making no attempt to prop pillows behind him. The nurse went to do so and was surprised when Tony slipped by her to sit in the open space, pulling the other man to rest against him. He slid one arm around so his palm pressed against Gibbs' heart, and the other wrapped lightly around his waist.

"What are you...you can't—"

But Gibbs settled immediately against Tony's body, breathing one deep, calming breath and slumped even deeper against him. His arms settled limp at his sides, and he even turned his head to press forehead and nose into Tony's neck and chest. Tony dared something he hadn't when Gibbs was sick so many months ago and moved the hand that rested at Gibbs' waist to stroke once through the older man's hair. Gibbs didn't make any noise but Tony was sure he felt the other man's rumble of satisfaction at the comfort.

"Well." The nurse, brown eyes warm and surprised, "I guess you showed me."

Tony was embarrassed, but not so much so that he was going to move. "I...we are friends. I helped him through this a few months ago."

"Well," she said with what seemed to be perfect sincerity, "he is lucky to have a friend like you. Do you have to stay like that all night? I can't imagine it would be very comfortable for either of you for very long."

"No, I'll move in a few minutes."

She moved forward and adjusted Gibbs' gown a little, checked his IV, and then, with one last warning to press the call button if he needed, she left Tony alone with Gibbs.

It was more than a few minutes, and brought back the weeks he had spent at Gibbs' after his heart attack. Tony felt a familiar wave of nostalgia and longing for that time, and guilt over feeling that way about something that was obviously really hard for Gibbs. When Gibbs went back to work, Tony went back to his apartment. Since then….three times—only three times but still—Gibbs had called Tony in the middle of the night. Gibbs didn't say why he was calling, but the rasp in his voice, the breathlessness, made it clear. Tony knew now the sound of Gibbs' fear and even though he doubted the rest of the time, in these tiny moments in the night, with the return of an intimacy that didn't need a label, Tony allowed himself to hope that he was part of the reason that Gibbs didn't want to die anymore.

So for now, he held Gibbs and the hope of more equally tightly.

In the morning, when Gibbs woke, Tony was back in the chair and Gibbs once again didn't recognize him. It was Ziva who helped pull Gibbs back into the present, and Gibbs regained enough memory to help them avert a crisis. And It was Mike Franks that Gibbs went to, to rebuild and renew.

But it was Tony that Gibbs called late at night when even the warmth of the Mexican sun and a simpler life on the water, weren't enough to slow the frantic beating of his healing heart.

Three.

Ultimately, though, the dreams faded away, Gibbs' subconscious realizing that if getting blown up wasn't enough to cause another heart attack, he was probably safe. But his heart, while healed, was forever changed.

The hard part wasn't ignoring his feelings or putting them in their place. Hell, he'd been doing that for years. It was the little stuff. The way that Tony's touch now _meant_ something _safetycomfortheatheatheat_ and anytime they got close it was notable at best and torture at worst: working out together, the office football games, helping each other over rough terrain in the field, standing close to view evidence, or a body, or information on the plasma. That was new. Hiding his response was second nature. Learning how not to feel it seemed a hopeless task.

Gibbs never did get very good at it. In part because try as he might, he couldn't convince himself to shut Tony down or out of his life. Tony had pushed his way in when Gibbs had needed him, and now that Gibbs was back to full strength, it didn't seem right to turn Tony away when he came by with fallafel (the only fried food Ducky had allowed, and even then only once in a while) and beer to sit on the steps of his basement. Not when he was aware now that he preferred Tony's company to others'. It felt wrong to say that he didn't want to go for a run with the younger man, when the truth was, he did. And the first time that Tony came over and put a movie on, having brought popcorn and root beer, he didn't say it was okay but then again Tony hadn't asked, had just come by and when the credits were rolling and the opening music was playing, Gibbs went ahead and took a seat on the couch, not all the way on the other end but not too close either. He used the time to practice not touching Tony, whose proximity had come to mean shelter and warmth, and found that if he focused on the sound of Tony's voice, the other man's commentary on the movie, he would enjoy himself.

After that, they watched a movie every couple of weeks. And not once did Gibbs stand and sit closer, push back into Tony's heat, pull the other man's arms around him, under his shirt, lean his head back in invitation so that Tony's rough cheek rubbed against his own.

He even took Tony with him to Stillwater one weekend when Jack closed down the store for spring cleaning and inventory. Both Gibbs' were grateful for the extra pair of hands, and Jethro was glad that Tony was there when he told his father about his heart attack, now months past. It was dark, but there was a half moon and the stars were out. All three men were sitting around the still burning fire pit in the backyard Saturday night, having worked hard and eaten well.

Jack was incensed. _Ripshit_, Gibbs called it later when he and Tony talked about it.

Gibbs hadn't seen his father this angry since he was a young man and they fought all the time. But Jethro wasn't a young man now, and damned if he was going to apologize for protecting Jack who was too old to be worrying like he would and definitely too old but not too foolish to come charging over to D.C. to take care of his son. Suddenly, Jack bit off the remainder of the vicious tirade directed at his silent son and stomped back toward the house. Gibbs had sat, carefully still, lips pressed tight as Jack ranted, aware that this was new too, that _before_—_before what? Before the heart attack? Before Tony?_ —he would have hurled words back at his father, just a few, not enough to satisfy, purposefully stingy, before stalking away himself. Now he sat and listened, hearing the quaver in the older version of his own voice, feeling the heat on his face and knees and shins, the closest parts of his body to the fire, aware of DiNozzo sitting on a low, nylon webbed chair at the apex of the triangle the three of them made in the dark yard, Jack the only one on his feet.

Later in bed, he heard his father pass by his room and descend to the kitchen. Heard the pan go on the stove to warm milk. Heard the creak of the couch as Tony rose to join the eldest Gibbs. Heard the murmur of voices, Tony's dominant, and knew that Tony was explaining and reassuring. And before he could worry or get up himself to interfere, he rolled over and went back to sleep. Tony would take care of it.

The next morning, Jack hugged Jethro like he had ever since they reconciled, but did something he had never done in Jethro's memory. He held on. When Jethro moved to pull away after their usual embrace, his father held on and Jethro relaxed back in, thinking his father needed another few moments. Jack's big hand came up to cup the back of Jethro's head, and his rough lips pressed an awkward kiss on the side of Jethro's face. Jack pulled back now, just enough to hold his son by the shoulders, still close enough that their words were private.

"I'm your _father, _Jethro. I don't love you any less than you loved that little girl of yours. Don't shut me out again, you hear me? I'll listen if you tell me not to fuss. Or I'll try anyway. But please don't shut me out." His father's blue eyes were a faded version of his own, but the shine was tears, not age.

Yet one more way that Jethro's heart had changed. Instead of walking away, he found himself saying, "Okay, Dad," his voice hoarse and tentative, "Okay."

Four.

Maybe to someone hearing their story later, it would seem like it took a long time. That there must have been doubts that held them back, or like in Russian history, a series of Freezes and Thaws, where public communication entirely broke down only to flower into unprecedented openness and freedom. After all, by the next time Tony came to stay with Gibbs, _years_ had passed. Okay, so it was only a year and a half. But still.

It didn't seem that long. And that time was hardly uneventful. They were still the men they were, still driven to do the endless, tiresome, dreadful work that led them to small or angry or petty or stupid killers. Gibbs had spent time in Mexico and Tony learned the hard way that the director always had her own agenda. He did wonder if maybe he would have fallen for Jeanne under other circumstances, but as it was, his heart was firmly set on Gibbs.

And then Jenny died. Sent him away and he should never have gone but he did and she died. After the pain and guilt dulled to manageable levels, his first look at Gibbs after it was all over brought it all crashing in again. _He_ would never have left, never have let it happen. And the guilt and pain of losing her where she had invested so much faith in him and while she made mistakes, huge mistakes, she also had always done her best, often in the little things, as director. Even the thought of her just laid him low, as Jethro would say.

Ziva and Tim tried hard to be casual, to be business as usual, and Tony knew that they worried about him and that this worry was authentic but he also knew, or maybe he was imagining it, that there was a little bit of each of them that was glad he got his comeuppance, that being the favorite hadn't worked out so well for him. Even if he did believe this last, he knew that they were devastated by Jenny's death too, and that he had their sympathy made him cringe. He didn't deserve it.

And _Gibbs_. The look on Gibbs face as Tony returned to his desk…

If there had been a...cooling...not a freeze exactly, but a time when Tony didn't go to Gibbs as often, when Gibbs had long stopped calling Tony in the night, and they hadn't yet found a new way to connect, just the two of them, it was these last months, when Tony was on assignment for Jenny.

And so now he wasn't sure of anything and the guilt was crushing, taking his breath away and fuelling a manic vaudeville show starring Tony, outwardly, even as his brain ran around _and around and around like a hamster on a wheel_ trying to see his way forward, inwardly. Finally, they were all settled at their desks, waiting for the other shoe _new director_ to drop and it was quiet despite the whir of machines and the sound of voices on the phone or talking to each other _too quiet_ and Tony found himself standing without any memory of why he stood just knowing he need to get out _now run away now_ and he wondered if _he_ was having a heart attack though he knew he wasn't, his lungs filled with air and his body felt healthy and it was all so unfair. It should have been him. He could not have prevented her death but he could have died with her. He mumbled something _maybe he said bathroom maybe he said the lab maybe he said coffee _but he found himself turning into a hallway that he rarely went down. It contained some support offices, mostly shared by part time employees or contractors but ended at a small library containing legal and other resources. Little used, it was still occasionally used, so maintained its presence in the annual space allocation review. The room was small and windowless, not ideal for much else so far anyway.

He leaned against a counter installed against one wall, standing but curled over onto himself a little. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, too hard, felt the pressure, watched the flare of color that came with the movement's dull pain. At the sound of the door opening and closing behind him, fury blazed through him and he whirled to confront the person unlucky enough to want to use the library today—

and stopped, mouth open, hand and finger outstretched to point and send away

as Gibbs stepped into the room.

Tony's arm dropped and his jaw set, and instead of dissipating, his anger was churning, deciding between turning on Gibbs or continuing to eat Tony from the inside out.

Gibbs, however, was not so indecisive, and moved forward to Tony. He put his hands on Tony's shoulders and Tony knew his face showed surprise, maybe even shock, and he felt fear, not sure what _what this meant it even crossed his mind that maybe Gibbs was steadying him, getting ready to hit him_ but hoped the fear didn't show. Gibbs turned him, pushing on his right shoulder and pulling on his left, so that Tony spun and Gibbs was behind him.

Gibbs slipped Tony's jacket off and a few moments later, Gibbs' now empty hands pulled the tails of Tony's shirt out of the waistband of his pants, undershirt too. He pushed a hand underneath the undershirt, sliding up but getting stopped by Tony's shirt. Tony froze at the feeling of Gibbs' rough hand on his belly but it was withdrawn as quickly as it had been offered, but for a small huff of frustration from the older man.

Now Gibbs reached around higher, felt for Tony's buttons, unbuttoned his shirt top to bottom and Tony felt the other man's body press close behind him even as his hands, warm and calloused, blunt fingernails kept carefully trimmed, swept purposefully up his chest so that one palm pressed against Tony's heart and the other over his diaphragm. His chest was pressed against Tony's back, and Jethro's arms held Tony close.

Every time that Tony took a breath, Gibbs would feel it. Every time that Tony's heart beat, Gibbs would feel it.

The world was Gibbs, the heat of his chest pressed tight against his back, the strength in the arms around him, the swirl of breath against his neck. Tony closed his eyes.

This was comfort, an echo of the comfort Tony had been able to offer Gibbs, except for the hand on his belly. He hadn't done that. As if Gibbs could read his mind, and Tony had long thought he could, Gibbs spoke for the first time.

"I used to watch you breathe, after a coughing fit, after you had the plague. Every time, when the fit was over, you would hold your breath, I think, but to me it looked like you stopped breathing. I would get ready to jump up, but then you would start breathing again, and—" Gibbs' got a little lighter now, "finish whatever asinine comment or joke you were making."

Tony's head fell forward, so undone by the care that he couldn't even answer the tease.

"I am not here to judge you, Tony. You did a damn fine job when I was away. Jenny recognized that and rewarded you for a job well done...with another job. Maybe you made mistakes. God knows she did. And you'll live with them, like we all do."

Tony felt strung tight but the heat of Jethro and the sound of his voice, the arms holding him close...he let his body lean back, gave himself over.

If this is what Gibbs felt like when Tony held him in those nights so long ago, then maybe Tony hadn't gotten everything wrong. And Gibbs wasn't judging him, knew that Tony would judge himself.

Finally Jethro slid his hands down and out from under Tony's shirts. Tony didn't move, some part of him hoping that Gibbs was just taking a break, would come back. He waited, held his breath, breathing out only when Jethro pressed warm palms to his shoulders in one last steadying touch and, after a small hesitation that meant he almost didn't do it, leaned forward to press his lips against the back of Tony's neck and then speak quietly near Tony's ear.

"Get your ass back to your desk, DiNozzo. Need my senior agent on my six."

Tony's eyes slammed shut at Gibbs' touch but he brought air into his diaphragm and said, with a decent semblance of his usual bravado. "Yes, boss. On it, boss."

Five.

The next thing that happened was that Director Vance arrived. And broke them up. The team too.

But at the end of first two weeks aboard the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan, Tony received a letter, an actual handwritten letter with a little American Flag stamp, from Gibbs. It was short, but it was real. Gibbs related simple facts of the new team, names and where they sat, and then told him about Abby and the nuns being in the quarterfinals of a city wide bowling league. He also relayed Jack's good wishes and a little bit of gossip from Stillwater. Tony could _feel _how uncomfortable Gibbs was writing the letter, every letter a chore, every word hard won. He loved it.

He wrote back, a much longer letter, complaining about the food and the close quarters, writing up little character sketches of the mostly male inhabitants of the floating city he was to police. He had never been much of a writer, preferring talking to writing, but without people to talk to, he let everything he had left unsaid in the last two weeks come pouring out on the page.

And Gibbs wrote back. A letter similar to the first one. Tony smiled when he thought how grateful Gibbs probably was for the weekly call from his Dad, to fill at least a paragraph for Tony about Stillwater. And, after a couple weeks, Gibbs ventured farther down the unfamiliar path of personal communication to write his own little _very little_ character sketches of people...one of his neighbor, the new security guard at the Yard. Maybe he was taking a cue from Tony's own letters, and Tony decided that this imitation was in fact a sign that Gibbs liked them.

Gibbs handwriting was like his letters, unadorned, blocky, and clear. Hard won. Tony's handwriting was spiky and unpredictable, sometimes slanting one way, sometimes another. A girlfriend had once called it "girly" because as a young boy he had assiduously copied his beautiful third grade teacher's example, never leaving a hook where a loop would do.

In this way, four months passed, with Tony transferring ships after a month to the Seahawk, with the only face to face contact a brief satellite call where Tony used Navy resources to engage in a little cyber geekery on behalf of the team. He barely remembered what he said, so happy was he to see his team, his boss, his friends. He pursued the execution of his duties with grim determination and counted the days. 365, 364, 363, 362...when he got to 238, Lieutenant Brad Evans jumped overboard. But in the end, Lt. Evans had not done that to himself and when the team went to inform his wife of his death, they found that she too had been murdered. The case got Tony off ship to Cartagena and eventually home.

The afternoon passed in delicious hours of catching up and sharing stories—Abby and Jimmy joining them—and when finally, five o'clock came, Gibbs rose from where he sat listening and pretending to do paperwork, snapped off his computer and told them all to go home.

"You'll see him tomorrow, Abby. C'mon," he said, meeting Tony's eyes and jerking his head toward the elevator, "you're with me, DiNozzo." Tony's grin got even brighter and with a few parting words and half hugs for his teammates, Tony grabbed his gear and let Gibbs take him home.

Six.

If the afternoon was perfect, the evening was _perfecter_. Tony didn't care if that wasn't a word. They stopped on the way home and picked up steaks and beer. And it was like everything that had happened to them in the last two years culminated in this evening. Gibbs...Jethro...would never be chatty but he was as relaxed as Tony had ever seen him and with months of letters behind him, of phone calls from Mexico, they had plenty to talk about.

Tony sat on a stool in the kitchen as Jethro got the steaks and potatoes ready. Eventually, Jethro slid a cutting board in front of him and Tony made the salad, something he hadn't ever seen Jethro actually eat.

"Found out that if you chop it up a lot, it's alright."

Tony pretended to suppress a smile and Gibbs tapped a finger to the back of his head in a reminder of a headslap.

"When'll dinner be ready?"

"You in a hurry?"

"No. Why?"

Gibbs checked his watch. "Cause I don't think we are going to be allowed to eat in peace for at least an hour, maybe more." Even as he spoke, Tony heard the front door open.

"Gibbs?! Heard your missing agent came home." Fornell appeared in the doorway, shiteating grin on his face and a bottle of something in one hand. He shifted the bottle to the other hand and shook Tony's hand with genuine pleasure. "DiNozzo. Thanks for the heads up last month."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"Not much to do on a ship some days, Gibbs." He left it at that. He'd tell Jethro some time if he wanted.

Gibbs nodded toward the bottle. "What the hell is that?" Glanced at Tony, "And why are you blushing, DiNozzo?"

"Your boy likes raspberry liqueur, Jethro. Promised him a bottle of something for his help."

Tony was a little embarrassed but what the hell. He retrieved the bottle of champagne from the refrigerator where he had stowed it.

Now Jethro barked a laugh, "What are we...girls?"

"No, we are manly men who are celebrating." Tony popped the cork, poured champagne into beer glasses, topped them off with the liqueur. "To dry land."

They all drank. Gibbs made a face but Fornell obviously liked it. Tony divided Gibbs glass between the two of them and fetched Gibbs a new beer. Fornell finished his drink but then headed out for an open house at Emily's school.

Gibbs pushed Tony out the kitchen door too. "Go take a shower, DiNozzo. I figure we'll have at least one more visitor before we get to eat. You left some clothes here at some point, they are in the guest room somewhere in the chest of drawers."

Tony did feel grimy from the days of travel, and despite the small dive his stomach took at the mention of the guest room, he happily availed himself of Gibbs endless supply of hot water and padded down the stairs barefoot half an hour later, calling out to Jethro only to find the man on the phone.

"Dad. Stop talking. No, I am not being rude...stop...nevermind...here's Tony." Gibbs handed Tony the phone even though Tony could still hear Jack's voice coming out of the receiver and walked to the refrigerator.

Tony was so happy to talk to Jack that he almost didn't catch the fact that Jethro was pouring another two champagne and liqueur cocktails. Even as he placed the drink on the table, the front door slammed shut again and Ducky made his way in, ignoring the fact that Tony was on the phone to clap him on the shoulder and say _welcome home_.

"Jack, I'm gonna go, but I'll talk to you soon...yeah, I do remember...oh, well have fun then...don't do anything I wouldn't enjoy…" Gibbs rolled his eyes at Ducky even as Tony laughed and said good-bye, hung up. "Date with Edna Miller," Tony informed them, eyes sparkling. Jethro handed him one glass of champagne and Ducky the other. They toasted and sat down to a snack, Gibbs having scrounged up a block of cheddar and some Ritz crackers from somewhere. Food had never tasted so good.

Ducky didn't stay long and once Gibbs closed the door behind him, he looked at Tony and said, "It's enough to make me start locking my door."

Tony met his eyes with a rueful smile, "Wouldn't stop most of the people we know from coming in."

Gibbs agreed but added, "I think that's it for tonight though. Let's eat."

Tony couldn't remember a better day. He was off the ship, back on his team, and he was at Gibbs' house. His apartment had been sublet for the year so that was something to figure out tomorrow but for now, he was here. His body was alive with the proximity to Jethro, heat pooling low and Tony knew that if he thought about Jethro the way he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to hide arousal for long. Months at sea weren't helping.

Tony figured he'd take the edge off later, when he was alone, and get laid this weekend. Tomorrow was Friday after all. Right now, though, in the warmth and light of Gibbs home, dusty bookshelves and all, Tony was just glad to be with the other man. If he could choose, he might not even choose sex. He might choose sitting on the couch, Jethro against his chest, or him laying against Jethro.

After dinner, Jethro seemed to run out of words, but was glad enough to listen to Tony. Eventually even Tony wound down and they sipped their bourbon in front of the dying fire until Gibbs sighed and stood up.

"I'm turning in, Tony. You coming?"

Tony looked up at the other man, his face shadowed in the dim light from the fire and a single table lamp. He noticed the lines around his eyes and lips, his hair a little long, mouth a little softer than usual from alcohol and laughter.

"Yeah. Right behind you." Jethro reached out and Tony grasped his hand, let himself be pulled up, wanted to say thank you. _Thank you for rescuing me from that godforsaken ship, for writing me, for letting me stay, for letting me in._ He didn't say any of those things, but given the pause before Jethro turned to snap off the light and head up the stairs, Tony thought he might know them anyway.

ooOoo

He turned at the sound of Jethro at his open door, the door to the guest room.

Tony was getting ready to swap out old, soft jeans and a t-shirt for boxers and a clean t-shirt, but hadn't gotten farther than brushing his teeth and washing his hands.

Now he looked at Jethro, who was leaning against the doorframe, watching him.

"What?"

He was about to ask again when Jethro looked down at the floor, then up again to catch Tony's eyes, before saying. "So...bi, huh?"

Every muscle in Tony's body tightened perceptibly. "Uh...yeah." He managed to get out, followed it up. "Why? You been thinking about it?"

Again, Jethro's eyes dropped, lifted. He nodded. He didn't seem tense, his lean frame loose and relaxed but somehow...alert. Tony, on the other hand, felt anything but relaxed, was glad he hadn't taken his jeans off yet because boxers would have shown just how not relaxed he was.

Jethro straightened and walked into the room. Tony almost backed up. Jethro noticed, stopped, asked, "Do you want me to leave?"

Terrified he had just stopped this before _jesus, was this really happening_ it got going, Tony took a step forward, "_No_!" Toned it down, "No. I'm good. Uh...you?"

"Tony…"

"Gibbs, really, it's fine," he took a deep breath, "Jethro, it's fine. Whatever you want to ask, whatever you want to...do, it's fine."

Gibbs looked at him like Gibbs looked at everything, like he saw through you, was weighing you, and with a natural curiosity that was magnetic. Like now. Head cocked a little bit, eyes roaming over Tony's face, mouth set.

"You...you want...will you let me—" Gibbs sucked in a deep breath in frustration and his lower jaw pushed forward a little as he tried to grind the words out.

Tony let his arms hang loose at his sides, palms out. "I'm all yours." He kept his tone light but let his eyes show Jethro how serious he was.

And again, Gibbs was Gibbs; once committed, unhesitating. Jethro moved forward, close to Tony. Tony almost moaned and the older man hadn't even touched him yet. _Fuck was he going to touch him? Ohmygodohmygodohmygod ohhhhhh._

Jethro undressed him, not rushing but not drawing it out either. He neither deliberately touched bare skin or deliberately avoided it, and that made the swift strokes of rough finger pads that much more heady...on his sides, along his shoulders, as he swept the shirt off him. Jethro's fingers at his waist, unbuttoning his jeans, banished the last of Tony's control and there was no hiding the heavy length of his cock straining against the jeans, curving forward as Jethro unzipped his pants, eyes intent on Tony's. Jethro didn't look away as he pushed at Tony's jeans, just hard enough that the material dropped, heavy, to the floor. He didn't look away as he held Tony by the hips to steady him as he stepped out of the puddle of denim.

He didn't look away but his eyelids grew heavy and Tony watched as Jethro's bright blue eyes grew darker.

Jethro finally looked away, needing his eyes to maneuver Tony's boxers off his body without catching on his erection, which he did, pulling the waistband out and down _down_ with his left hand and then reaching forward to cup Tony's balls and press upward into the base of Tony's cock with his right. _Just like fucking that, he went from not having ever touched Tony to oh my god what was happening and please please please don't let it stop._

Tony's head dropped back and he moaned, high and needy, surprised out of all moderation, and that seemed to reach Jethro whose hand tightened even as he pressed forward and let his mouth open, suck _hard_, at Tony's throat, tongue tracing circular tracks of cartilage. And Tony was already beyond words, moaning again and now reaching out to pull the other man close, his head snapping down to dislodge Jethro's lips from his neck and blindly seeking the other man's mouth with his own, eyes closed but nuzzling Jethro's face with his nose. Before he could kiss him though, Jethro's hand slid up to hold his head steady, growled against Tony's lips.

"You want this?"

"Oh god yes I want this. But hell, Jethro, I'm not new to this. Do _you_ want this?"

Jethro's eyes were, if anything, even darker, sparking hot and intent on Tony's. "I wasn't sure, but there was only one way to find out."

Tony tilted his head, moved his head back and forth to brush his lips almost chastely against Jethro's, trying to lure Jethro into the kiss, felt his own breath come back to him where he spoke against Jethro's mouth. "And now?"

Jethro's hand was on his, moving it between his legs and Tony felt the bulge, the answering heat, long and hard and thick, to his own. "What do you think?" Jethro growled and kissed him even as Tony squeezed and pressed forward, rolling his hips and reaching under Jethro's t-shirt to push it off and out of the way.

Tony felt a compulsion to taste every part of Gibbs, to lick the bare skin, suck on his nipples, to bite gently on lobes and lips and belly. And Jethro let him. Let Tony push him down onto the bed, let the younger man strip him and stretch out along and straddle him suggestively. He moaned and said "Oh god, Tony" when Tony kissed up the soft inner surface of his thighs, mouthed and sucked at the seam of his thigh, high and so close to where he really wanted Tony's mouth. And then he had it, for just a few glorious seconds before pushing Tony off and flipping him.

"No." His voice was harsh but his hand stroked along Tony's face and into his hair, to grip and hold, but it didn't hurt. Not much anyway. Just right. "I need to know you're here, Tony, that you want to be here, with me. I can't stop thinking about it, about...fuck it, I'm terrible at this—" His forehead dropped down to rest on Tony's shoulder but his mouth began moving softly over the skin of Tony's chest. Tony's hand came up to rest at the nape of Jethro's neck, stroked.

"You've thought about it. Does that mean you have _thought_ about it in that always be prepared Gibbsy sort of way? Do you have any supplies?" Tony could not believe he was able to speak and make sense; every atom in his body felt Jethro's pull and fighting the attraction was costing him. A light sweat was breaking out even as Tony's body shivered; Jethro swiped his thumbs across Tony's nipples and Tony bucked and moaned. "Dammit _c'mon_...oh no, don't go—"

But Gibbs wasn't going far, he left just long enough to pull a condom and what was clearly a new bottle of lube, from the drawer. Tony watched Gibbs struggle to get the packaging off, only a little bit of amusement bleeding through the litany of _fasterfasterfasterohgodwhatistakingsolongfaster_. And then at a sudden thought, he was surprised to hear an actual laugh come out of his mouth, "Were you planning this?"

Tony took the condom from Jethro's unusually clumsy hand and rolled it swiftly onto the older man, thrilling to the sounds he made, to the way his body curled over and against Tony's body down to press and slide against him again. Finding himself near Tony's ear, Jethro growled, "Put some in every room in the house."

Tony's eyes slammed shut even as he rooted for Jethro's mouth, found it and held on, tongue plunging deep and the taste and feel of the other man made him moan and press against him. There was no more talking or joking or laughing even, and if Jethro needed instructions, Tony was probably beyond giving them. Jethro must have read up, or watched a video, because while a little tentative and fumbling at first, Jethro wet his fingers and prepped Tony like a pro. By the time Jethro was finger fucking Tony open with three fingers, Tony had wrapped his hand around Jethro's cock and was stroking behind Jethro's balls with one long finger. Jethro was squirming, trying to get closer and farther away both, trying to hold on, and finally let his fingers slide out, Tony moaning at the loss.

Jethro pushed at Tony's knees, and spread his legs wide, rose up to kiss him, long and hard and hot, before shifting backwards and slicking his cock even as he pushed the head against and through Tony's hole.

It had been a long time since he had done this, but Tony was ready, more than ready and his body was already sparking and tensing for release. He wanted it to last longer, wanted to draw it out, but he couldn't _couldn't_ _just needed him needed it now now_ and pulled Jethro down even as he reared up and into a kiss that forced Jethro's cock to slide tight and thick almost all the way into him. And then there wasn't any thinking or slowing down, just Jethro filling him, Jethro's eyes hazy and full of disbelieving pleasure on his.

"_Tony_," he gasped and moaned and shuddered against Tony, and the thought of Gibbs taking him, _coming_ inside of him, combined with the press and pressure of the other man's body dropping down and jerking against his own, his cock hot and long and leaking tight between them, brought Tony off too and the only thing that mattered was how close they were, how he could press his lips to whatever skin was closest, how they were wrapped around each other, holding each other, and could stay that way all night or get up and take showers and climb into Jethro's bed, with its fresh sheets.

Seven.

And that was how they were, when they were close, pressed chest to chest, whether wrapped around each other seconds after coming, or whether stretching sleepily against each other, pressing long, drugging kisses onto each other's mouths until sleep pulled one or the other of them down.

When they were close like that, the most important thing, the last thing, the only thing, was the strong beat of Jethro's heart against his own.


End file.
